


She Would Paint

by theultimatezb



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theultimatezb/pseuds/theultimatezb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There would always be another battle to fight, another war to win. Yes, life should be more than just surviving, but survival would always come first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Would Paint

**Author's Note:**

> First Clexa fic. Hope it is okay.

There would always be another battle to fight, another war to win. Yes, life should be more than just surviving, but survival would always come _first_. Somewhere between the third war – this time with the people across the Sea – and the many deaths of her people, _their_ people, Clarke lost something inside her. Something close to her heart and she wasn't sure if she'd get that missing piece of herself back. And Lexa had front row seats to witness it happen.

Something about seeing a land filled with dead people, arms, legs and heads littered all over the ground and blood flowing in a steady stream. It was worse than putting a bullet in Jaha's crazed mind months before and killing all those people in Mount Weather almost two years ago. Tents were on fire, horses running wild and the injured screaming for help. Clarke stood in the middle of the battle that they had already won, tears in her eyes and stomach clenching in disgust. She saw a bloodied Raven being hauled onto a stretcher, Indra and Kane limping around but happy to be alive.

She should be helping, but her legs wouldn't move. The smell of blood and burnt flesh made her sick, she was sure one small movement would send her vomiting her guts out. Clarke only started to feel a tiny bit of relief when a gloved hand slipped into her own, squeezing in comfort. She turned to look at the Commander, war paint mixed with blood and sweat, green eyes as haunted as hers.

"It's never going to end, is it?"

"Death is the only end, Clarke."

If they weren't surrounded by a sea of dead bodies, Clarke would find Lexa's bluntness and inability to sugar coat her words somewhat endearing.

They returned to Polis after the war was over and the victory tour was done. Celebratory feasts and parties for seven days straight, people eating and drinking and dancing like no tomorrow, bowing before the Commander and the Sky Princess.

Clarke had to put on a smile and a brave face throughout the festivities, accepting gifts and gratitude from their people, but Lexa knew what was going on. Clarke's smile not quite reaching her dull blue eyes and sometimes stray tears would slip down her cheeks when she thought Lexa wasn't looking. The war took a toll on Clarke, and Lexa knew exactly how it could destroy her. But the Commander swore on her own life she'd be there when Clarke crumbled into pieces.

When the sun set and the moon rose, Clarke was her own worst enemy. Her head taunted her as her heart saddened her. Hidden behind her eyelids were images of hundreds of bodies – both her enemies and her people – either lying motionless or screaming in pain, fire and destruction surrounding her, a constant nightmare whenever she closed her eyes.

She would wake to make sure her arms weren't covered in blood, or the hands of her enemies hugging her boots, tugging and yelling in defeat. She would wake to see green eyes trained on her wet face, concern evident behind those eyes she loved.

It led to sleepless nights, nights spent either screaming in agony when she thought of the lives lost, or screaming in ecstasy when a pair of lips were on her neck and slim tanned fingers slipped inside of her. There was no in between.

"Survival is a necessity. Happiness is a privilege."

Lexa had told her that one night as the Commander brushed blonde hair away from blue eyes, both women lying in bed as the fireplace cast flickering shadows around the room, delicious heat warming their bare skin. Clarke was reminded of those words whenever she found herself standing outside on the balcony, looking down at the bustling city of Polis where grounders and arkers exchanged greetings and traded goods. She tried to tell herself that wars come with a price, a price she was willing to pay if it meant her people would have that privilege.

She tried visiting her mother back at the Ark in the med bay. She tried helping out at the healer's tent in Polis. But the sight and smell of blood and gaping wounds caused her heart to race and throat to close up. She couldn't lead, she couldn't heal, she could only stay indoors and watch the city from afar. If she squinted hard enough, she could make out a fraction of the Ark from her bedroom window. Lexa never once pushed her into doing anything. Clarke might not be wounded during the war, but she was hurt in ways no one would understand and she needed time to heal too.

What was once Lexa's bedroom became theirs. Clarke's paintings and sketches leaned against the walls and laid across the floors as Lexa's daggers, swords and pieces of armour were placed neatly and standing proud on shelves and hanging on walls.

Clarke would paint whenever she thinks about the next battle, the next obstacle to overcome. Clarke was convinced her own happiness was only temporary, that it wasn't a privilege for her. No matter how many times she'd gone to bed with Lexa in her arms, there was a crippling fear of what would come next. Another bomb, another ambush, another war. Her entire body would shake when the Commander attends a council meeting. She couldn't eat or sleep until Lexa returned. Clarke was certain that long and overnight council meetings foreshadowed war.

She would paint on the easel Lexa had given her as a gift on her birthday. She would paint the view of space from the Ark, the vast beautiful ocean she could see from the balcony. If her heart swelled with so much affection that she could barely contain it, she would paint Lexa's face and curves that she'd memorized over the years. Sometimes she would paint flames and angry red lines, people with their mouths opened wide and hands on their cheeks. Sometimes the brush in her hand felt like peace and tranquillity, and sometimes it felt as heavy as her gun and it would tremble against the canvas and break under the pressure of her palm.

She would paint until she could hear Lexa's soft footsteps approaching her from behind, she would paint until she felt soft lips on her shoulders and her neck. She would drop her brush when those lips kissed her hands and face, places that were clean of colourful paint.

Clarke spent her free time painting to soothe the broken parts inside her, every stroke covered a crack, the smell of earthy paints calming her heart. She tried to find the pieces she'd lost. She channelled the ache inside her, the ache no amount of screaming and crying could get rid of.

But if she were being honest, Clarke paints so she could feel Lexa's warm and gentle touch at the end of the day. How Lexa would pepper her face with kisses, draw them both a bath to clean and wipe away the dried paint on Clarke's skin with careful concentration, like she was trying her best to wash away the invisible blood and pain from her soul and from her limbs.

Because Lexa swore she'd be there when Clarke crumbled into pieces.


End file.
